


Bring Me My Queen

by satin_doll



Series: The Bee Saga [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Molly needs help, Sherlock Cares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9569096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: Sherlock notices something is very wrong with Molly. He has to help her.





	

_Take all my money_

_Take all my dreams_

_I’ll swim all across_

_Your ravaging seas..._

*****

He watches her, constantly, surreptitiously. No one notices, no one can tell, least of all her. But with stolen glances, hyper-awareness of her proximity, her movements, well-planned excuses for his presence - even outside of Bart’s - he monitors her. 

When did it become a _need_ for him? At what point did her presence in his life, in his mind, become such a necessity? He has no idea, not a clue. It simply happened. Gradually, over the years, she has become a part of him, so much so that he can’t do without her now, as if she has grown into his body like an extra limb, a new clump of brain cells without which he cannot function. 

So he is the first to notice the darker circles under her eyes that don’t disappear with rest. He notices the smallest of hesitations in her work, the slightest slowing of her movements. She is tired, but this tiredness doesn’t go away after her days off, or a good night’s sleep. She doesn’t bounce into the lab anymore, her voice has lost a good deal of its lilt when she speaks. The tiredness stays with her like a clinging shadow, casting a darkness on her life that simply isn’t _her_. It happens so gradually that most don’t even take note of it. But he sees. He _knows_ something is wrong.

The small malfunctions begin slowly. Little infections, colds, flu bugs. She shows up at work regardless, slogging through her days. One morning she appears with a lump under her jaw the size of a chestnut - a lymph node swollen as her body vainly tries to fight off another invasion of a virus or bacteria. It disappears by the afternoon but she is drained and paler than usual when she leaves for the day. He is sleepless that night, going over and over in his head what could possibly be wrong. She is absent from work the next day, the first time since he has known her that she’s missed a day of work. 

It’s easy to find out where she is. A casual inquiry, since he needs her help with his work. “Where is Molly today? I need her for this experiment.” No one questions this; he always needs Molly for some kind of help. 

She has a doctor’s appointment. This should be reassuring, but it is not. Seeing a doctor is not high on Molly’s list of Favorite Things To Do. 

When she reappears the following day, she seems no better. In fact, if anything, she seems preoccupied as well as tired, and the little frown line between her brows has appeared to become a permanent feature of her too-pale face.

He does the unthinkable: He brings her coffee, sits beside her on a stool in the lab while she works. When his silent scrutiny becomes overpowering, she turns to him, brows raised in question.

“What? Do you want something?” There is irritation in her voice but it’s damped, as if it too is weighed down by exhaustion.

His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean? I’m just...busy. I have work to do. What do you want?” She turns back to her business, her usually quick, deft hands moving slowly and deliberately. 

“You’re not yourself. You had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, for a complete physical exam. You know there’s something wrong.”

She stops for a moment, bracing herself against the countertop with her hands to either side, gripping the edge tightly.

“I’m not even going to ask how...There’s nothing wrong. I’m just tired. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of work to do around here and we’re short-handed.”

“What about the doctor? What did she say?”

Molly pauses a long moment, staring straight ahead. Then she turns to face him, her expression blank. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the doctor says I’m fine. I’m in perfect health.”

She picks up her work, turns and brushes past him and out the door, but not before he sees the bright shimmer in her eyes of unshed tears.

There is no sleep for him that night. 

*****

Molly sits in her darkened lounge, the flickering light from the telly unnoticed, along with the food on the table in front of the sofa. She knows she’s lost weight, but she has no interest in food lately. Thoughts fill her head, chasing each other around like cats at play, but she can’t concentrate long enough to actually _think_ about anything. 

Somewhere in the jumble she catches the doctor’s words “You’re in perfect health” quickly followed by her fleeting inner reaction: They just didn’t find it. 

She’s just so tired, so very tired of everything. Her work, her loneliness (although that’s her fault; she avoids everyone now.) 

And then there’s Sherlock. She’s especially tired of him, of all he’s put her through, his manipulations, his poor treatment of her despite knowing how she feels about him. She’s tired of wanting him, knowing there’s no hope of ever being with him in any way. They can’t even be proper friends. She’s tired of the drama, tired of _thinking_ about him. 

She’s tired in her bones, in her soul. Weary, exhausted, drained. But she can’t sleep. Her brain won’t shut down and she lies in the dark staring up at the ceiling until the thoughts drag her from bed to sit in the kitchen where she stares at the tea she’s just made, unable to drink it. 

“You’re in perfect health.” _They just didn’t find it._

She starts to wonder just how long she can live like this.

*****

_She takes all your love_

_Takes all your notions_

_Tears them all down_

_Til the earth loses motion..._

The fourth day Molly misses work, Sherlock is frantic. Mike Stamford claims she is home sick with another flu bug, but Sherlock knows better. He would have noticed the symptoms, the onset of something like the flu. He has made a point of being at Bart’s almost every day since Molly’s appointment with her doctor (and stupid misdiagnosis) and has been watching her even more closely than usual. 

It’s quite obvious she’s deeply depressed - at least, obvious to him. But it’s more than that. He knows it’s more.

His fear and frustration finally drive him to her flat, to stand outside her door, uncertain what to do next. What should he say? How does he let her know he truly wants to help? 

_What if she won’t LET him help?_

He knocks on the door, softly at first, then harder when there is no answer. Finally he gives up knocking, picks her lock (which he has done so often before, though the last year he’s tried very hard to refrain from it.) 

The flat is dim though it’s still afternoon; curtains drawn at the windows, no lights on. He moves quietly, not wanting to wake her if she’s sleeping. In the lounge he finds her curled on the sofa, awake, staring at nothing, eyes red-rimmed and face wet and blotchy. She doesn’t move when she sees him, just looks up at him briefly and then returns to her blank stare, tears still leaking from her eyes.

He glances around the room. It all looks normal at first. Then he notices a few books stacked beside a chair, a tea cup on a shelf, a tin of biscuits on the floor beside a table. Small things, but Molly is meticulous about her flat; she never leaves things like that lying around. 

He slips off his coat and scarf, tosses them on a chair, then slowly walks around the table in front of the sofa and sits on it. He stares down at her, hands clasped between his knees.

He has never felt so helpless. 

Images appear in his brain, pictures of Molly through the years he’s known her. Awkward Molly, stammering Molly, unfashionable Molly. _Intelligent Molly, adept Molly, perceptive Molly._

Lovelorn Molly, angry Molly, distant Molly. _Loyal Molly, kind Molly, steadfast Molly._

_Brave Molly. Molly full of courage and commitment. Molly with her head full of knowledge and silly jokes. Molly who never turns her back on anyone, who always knows right from wrong, who will fight and defend her friends like a wild animal if needed…_

_His_ Molly.

He slips to his knees in front of her, carefully reaches to draw a wet strand of hair back from her cheek. 

“Molly,” he whispers, “Please let me help.” And without thinking, he leans down and kisses her tear-stained cheek. 

She grasps his hand tightly, and the sobs begin. He pulls her up, sits beside her on the sofa and leans her against his side and holds her while she cries, his lips against the top of her head. Her tears are coming from somewhere very deep inside her, a place that seems familiar to him. Her pain echoes inside him, pulls answering tears from him. 

They sit that way until the light dims further, and Molly’s tears finally give way to occasional sniffles. 

She suddenly pulls away, sits up, stands and wanders away down the hall to the bathroom. He watches as the light flicks on, the door closes. His eyes are wet. He rubs them dry, stands, turns on the lamp by the sofa. 

Tea. We’ll need some tea. 

Molly’s kitchen is as familiar to him as his own. For the moment the tumult of emotion inside him is quieted as he goes through the automatic motions of making the tea. When Molly appears, her face washed and hair brushed, he sets a cup in front of her, pours his own. She takes a sip, turns and goes back into the lounge. He follows, finds her sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked up, cup in hand. He hesitates, then goes and sits beside her, setting his cup on the table in front of him.

Molly finally breaks the silence, her voice very soft and slightly hoarse. 

“I know something’s wrong. The doctor did tell me I was in perfect health but that can’t be right. I even ran some blood tests on myself, but...nothing. I’m depressed, I know that. I went to a therapist, she gave me some pills but they don’t seem to be doing anything. I’m just...so tired. I can’t seem to not be tired…” Her voice quavers a bit and she is silent again.

Sherlock turns to face her. 

“Molly, would you be willing to go and see someone with me? A...doctor, a psychiatrist that I know? She’s a bit unconventional...but she’s not a quack.”

Molly sips her tea, looks down at her lap. 

“At this point I’d be willing to see a witch doctor if it might help.”

Sherlock smiles at her. “Good girl.” He reaches across and touches her arm gently, then turns to his tea.

She watches him with wide eyes, surprised at the warmth she feels from him, equally surprised at how glad she is that he’s there with her. 

“Sh...Sherlock…” she begins, and he turns to look at her again. “Would…”

“I’m going to stay here tonight.” His gaze is steady on her face. But then he looks down, blinks. “If that’s all right…”

Molly looks down also, and for the first time in what seems years, feels a smile on her lips. 

“Yes. I mean, that’s fine. Thank you.”

***** 

For the first time in months, Molly sleeps. Sherlock wakes her the next morning with a gentle rap on her bedroom door. 

“She’ll see us as soon as we can get there. It’s a drive out of town, so we’d best start soon.”

There is a pause and then…

“I made us some breakfast.”

Molly blinks herself awake and sits up in the bed, wondering. Sherlock made breakfast. Before she can become mired in pondering this new behavior, she pulls herself out of bed, grabs some clothes, and heads to the bathroom to shower. 

Breakfast consists of eggs, toast, and coffee. It’s not a feast, but for Molly it may as well be. It’s been so long since she’s been even slightly rested, since she’s felt the least bit hopeful for some relief…

She watches Sherlock wolf down his breakfast and can’t help but smile at him. He glances up at her, gives her a brief smile back, then gulps some coffee and grabs his phone. 

“Hurry up, we’ve got a drive ahead of us.” This almost brings a chuckle from her. That’s Sherlock, she thinks, and does her best to finish her food, though she’s still not especially hungry. She doesn’t know how long this caring from him will last, but - for now - she will take what she can get.

*****

The doctor’s house is a little over an hour’s drive outside of London. The day is mild, with the sun frequently peeking through a bit of cloud cover, and the drive itself is pleasant. There’s little talk between them, and Molly occupies herself watching the scenery, trying not to wonder or worry about what’s going to happen. 

The drive ends in front of a very quaint brick cottage at the end of a gravel lane. The fenced front garden is wild and overgrown with an incredible mixture of flowers and up the short path in front of the house, they come to a door painted bright red. Sherlock knocks and the door is opened immediately. 

The woman who answers the door is shorter than Molly, and slightly plump. Her long white hair is pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun, and bright blue eyes peer out from behind cat’s eye glasses, straight from the 1950’s. 

She glances at Molly, then grins at Sherlock. 

“Hello there, Stretch.” Her voice is deep and somewhat raspy, but not unpleasant. “And you must be Molly. Come in, come in.” She steps aside and waves them into one of the oddest rooms Molly has ever seen.

It is a riot of patterns and color. Every piece of furniture is upholstered in a different pattern, some pieces covered in several patterns at once. Apart from two plump sofas and several deep club chairs, there are tables and trunks and occasional chairs everywhere, smothered under books, magazines, and odds and ends of everything from stuffed animals to lab equipment. In one corner of the large room is a fortune teller from an arcade, across from that is a full-scale antique carousel horse. There is an artist’s drawing table another corner, covered with sketches. On the walls is a melange of everything from very authentic looking original oils, photographs, framed pictures of everything from flowers to blueprints. It seems every surface is nearly buried, and stacked in piles on the floor are thick volumes of old books. When Molly looks up, she sees the ceiling is painted a midnight blue and covered with stick-on, glow-in-the-dark stars.

Molly’s mouth is open as she stares around at his crazy room, and she suddenly realises she is being rude. She turns to find both the odd little woman (who is dressed in a long black dress and is barefoot) and Sherlock grinning at her reaction. She takes a deep breath, feeling a flush of embarrassment reddening her cheeks, and opens her mouth to apologise.

The woman waves her hand and shakes her head. “No, no, it’s quite all right, don’t be embarrassed. Everyone reacts like that when they first see it. Except this one here - “ she nods her head towards Sherlock, who is still grinning and enjoying himself hugely. “HE immediately began running around pawing through the books and examining it all, laughing like a kid in a candy shop.” 

Molly can’t help but grin back at the image of Sherlock discovering the room full of odd treasures. 

“I’m Margery Hillencamp, Molly. _Doctor_ Hillencamp, hard as that may be to believe at the moment, but you can call me Marge. Come out to the porch, I’ve got some tea made and we can leave Stretch there while we go and talk.” 

It takes Molly a moment to figure out what’s wrong with Dr. Hillencamp’s - Marge’s - speech and then it hits her: Marge is American. The accent is distinguished and educated, but definitely American. As she follows Marge through a door at the side of the room, Sherlock behind her, she finds herself full of questions, but...those will have to wait. She is here for help.

The porch, which is actually enclosed in glass, is quite a contrast to the first room. The floor is covered with a lovely red Persian carpet, and apart from a dark wood table holding a tea tray along the far glass wall, is simply furnished with a black wicker sofa, two black wicker chairs at either side, and a glass topped wicker coffee table in front of the sofa. The porch is surrounded by trees and the daylight is soft and suffused as it filters through the leaves. Despite the sparse furnishings, the room manages to be both warm and comfortable.

Marge pours them all some tea and and they sit, Marge in one of the chairs, Sherlock and Molly on the sofa.

“So, Stretch. Did you tell Molly how we met?” 

Sherlock’s lips quirk. “I haven’t told her much of anything yet, except you’re a rather odd doctor.”

Marge laughs outright at this, a deep pleasant laugh, that makes Molly smile.

“Some would say that’s an understatement.” Marge looks at Molly. “I was accused of murdering several of my patients in...extremely unpleasant ways. Sherlock helped prove me innocent, for which I am extremely grateful. Given my quirky nature, I can fully understand how a backwards and somewhat neurotic police force would assume the worst, I suppose, but the whole escapade soured me a bit on the practice of psychiatry. So I’ve been semi-retired these last few years. I say ‘semi-retired’, because I do take on a client from time to time, usually referred to me by Stretch here.”

Molly glances at Sherlock, who seems to be intensely interested in the movement of the leaves outside. 

“The fact that those morons mistook you for a serial killer does not detract from the fact that you are an excellent and most insightful therapist. Hence my referrals.” He glances at the doctor and raises his cup in a small salute. Marge nods in acknowledgement of the compliment, then stands and looks at Molly.

“Well, bring your tea and come along, Molly dear. Let’s get this show on the road.”

After glancing at Sherlock, who gives her a small smile of encouragement, Molly stands and follows Marge back through the crazy lounge, through another door and into a short hallway. She unlocks a door at the end and stands aside to let Molly into another surprise. 

This room, which Molly assumes to be Marge’s office, is tastefully decorated in soft pinks and greens, with berber carpet on dark wood floors. There is a small desk at one end of the room, a fireplace along one wall. Everything is plush and cosy and comfortable and Molly immediately relaxes and feels right at home. She settles herself in a chair, Marge sitting in the one opposite and tucking her legs under her. 

“All right, Molly. How can I help you?”

Molly, at first hesitant, gradually gains confidence telling her story. Marge sits quietly, occasionally asking a question, and when Molly is finished, simply nods and then rises from her chair and goes to the desk.

“I’d like to put you in the hospital, Molly…”

Seeing Molly take a breath to protest, she holds up her hand.

“It will be overnight, just for a test. We’ll do another blood test, you’ll swallow a pill, get two injections, and be given a few simple pieces of equipment. After that you’ll collect your urine for seven days, and then we’ll know.”

Molly stares at Marge in confusion. “Know what?”

“Whether what I suspect is true. If it is, we’ll begin treatment and you should feel better in a few days. In the meantime, I’m going to up your dosage of antidepressant and quickly bring you to maximum. After you’re feeling better, we’ll see about bringing it down a bit, and after a while, wean you off it.”

Molly doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Really? That’s all? What’s wrong with me?”

Marge finishes writing her prescription and hands it to Molly, then sits down again. 

“I think you have pernicious anemia. It’s called a ‘rare’ disease, though in my opinion it’s not as rare as people think, it’s simply un- or misdiagnosed quite often. Basically, your stomach is not manufacturing something called intrinsic factor, which makes you unable to absorb any vitamin B12 in the normal way. The liver usually carries about five years worth of B12, but when it runs out, if you’re not putting more in, there’s no way to make more, because the liver doesn’t manufacture it, it’s only a storehouse. Without B12, your bone marrow can’t make blood. Without blood, your organs, including your brain, don’t get enough oxygen and begin shutting down. You become prone to infections of all kinds and there are other more serious complications that can happen. Usually extreme fatigue is the first symptom people notice. That’s the physical side of it. The mental side is severe, sometimes suicidal depression, memory loss, a kind of dementia, erratic behavior. Until 1926, when B12 was finally synthesised, pernicious anemia was a death sentence, with most people succumbing to either congestive heart failure or suicide. Fortunately, it’s easily treatable with regular injections of B12. It has to be injected into the muscle because with the disease the body can’t absorb it any other way. Pills and inhalants don’t work.

“The test we’ll give you is called a Schilling’s test. It will allow us to see whether or not any B12 is being absorbed through your stomach. The sad thing about pernicious anemia is that it goes undiagnosed so often. I routinely check patients who are severely depressed for it, because regular blood work doesn’t show it, and not many doctors are educated to look for it. You said you had a complete work up and nothing was found, right? That’s what happens. You were right. They just didn’t find it.”

By this time, Molly is crying again, though she isn’t quite sure why. She is both relieved and angry: relieved that she might finally know exactly what was wrong; angry that she might have this stupid, incurable disease. She can’t even think of any questions she wants to ask. 

Marge rises from her chair, kneels in front of Molly, takes her hand. 

“I’m fairly certain this is what we’re dealing with Molly. It’s a simple, easy treatment, and I promise you, you’ll be back to your usual self in no time. Even better than usual.” She smiles and pats Molly’s hand, goes to the desk and brings back some tissues. Molly blots her eyes, wipes her nose, and finds herself smiling. 

“Thank you. Oh God, thank you so much!” She stands and impulsively pulls Marge into a hug. Marge pats Molly’s back and hums with pleasure. When Molly steps away, Marge grins at her again. “Now tell me about you and Stretch out there. You two looked awfully cute sitting together on the sofa…” 

Molly laughs. 

*****

The drive home is just as pleasant as the drive out. Molly gives a brief synopsis of Marge’s diagnosis and the plan and Sherlock regales Molly with stories of his adventures getting Marge out of trouble. 

At the door to her flat, Molly turns and looks down, suddenly shy. 

“Sherlock...thank you. For thinking of Marge and taking me there. I don’t know...I hate to think what might have happened if…” Molly’s voice trails off and she impulsively puts her arms around him. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as his arms come up around Molly’s small form and he returns her hug. Relief floods through him and he bends his head and rests his cheek against her hair. 

“I couldn’t risk losing my pathologist could I?” He holds her tightly for a moment longer, then releases her and steps back. “I’m glad I could help, Molly. I’m glad...that everything is going to be all right.” 

They gaze at each other until it begins to feel awkward and Sherlock drops his eyes and clears his throat. 

“I suppose…”

“Sherlock…”

They stumble over each other and Molly giggles. Sherlock nods at her to speak first.

“I was just wondering…”

“If I’d like to have coffee?”

Molly blinks at him in surprise, then smiles. “Well...no. Would you like to come in for some lunch?” 

He considers this seriously, his eyes never leaving her face. 

“Are you sure you feel up to it?”

Molly’s smile fades and she looks down.

“Last night...last night I thought I might...never want to see you again. I was so tired and so...hopeless. And then you showed up and...and...I was never so glad to see anyone in my life.”

He blinks, takes a breath, remembers the panic that engulfed him when he thought something might take her away from him. The feeling swells in his chest as he stares at her. He is also tired - tired of keeping her always at a distance, of watching over her secretly, of never having the words to say what he really feels.

“It’s okay, I know you must be busy...if you don’t have time for…” she begins.

“I have time,” he interrupts. “I have plenty of time. And…”

He steps closer, raises his hand and gently touches her cheek. 

“There’s no one I’d rather spend it with.”

The delight in her eyes at his words is difficult for him to see. It’s taken so long for those words to be there, but now that he’s said them he thinks the rest might come easier. 

Molly turns and unlocks her door, and Sherlock follows her inside. 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In the TMI category: I have pernicious anemia; Molly's experience echoes my own. Just thought I'd toss that out there.


End file.
